Tabula Rasa
by convenientdistraction
Summary: My take on the Emma/Rachel friendship that was never explored on the show. Takes place after Season 1/Journey to Regionals.
1. Chapter 1

_The more you juggle your predicament around in your brain, the more ironic it becomes. Your whole life you've been taught what it takes to stand out. What it takes to stand on a crowded stage and have someone point at you and say, "She's the best. I want her."_

_Or say, "She's the worst. I hate her."_

_It never really mattered much. Either way they had picked you. Loved you for what you were or hated you for what they couldn't be. You never really saw any difference between the two. Never cared to._

_But now you find yourself staring at the ceiling most nights, wondering how you're supposed to compete with a creature whose sole feature is the fact that it has nothing to offer? Something that takes and takes and doesn't give anything back. When all you know how to do is give back._

_Tabula rasa. You vaguely remember the first time your freshman history teacher had mentioned the phrase in class. You had shaken it off at the time, dismissing the fact that any person could be a blank slate. You are where you come from. And you are the mistakes the people who come before you have made. Whether it's a strike against you or a gold star, it doesn't matter. Your life is pretty much written for you, and there's not a lot you can do about it. You've been told how your story will turn out for about as long as you can remember. It's just your job to show up and make it happen._

_Now it's the one phrase that keeps running circles around your brain and tastes bitter on your tongue as you think about how she chose her over you. How she didn't care about your own story unless she was the one who had written it._

* * *

><p>"Okay, so I was in the grocery story the other day with my dads and they told me to go pick up some bread. And I was standing in the bread aisle just checking the dates on the loaves and I started thinking. You know how there's the bread that's going to go bad in two days, and you just push it aside and reach for the newer bread in the back. But the bread in the front is still good Miss Pillsbury. It's still good. So why doesn't anybody want it?"<p>

She blinks at you in confusion. "Because it's old?"

You look up at her, feeling your contacts burn as you burst into another fit of tears and ignore the fact that she's nudging the tissue box towards you like you're some sort of wild animal.

"Exactly," you sniff, "Because it's old and nobody wants it. And so I just stood there crying in the middle of the grocery store and I forgot to get any."

"Crying for the bread."

"No!" you wail, sliding the sleeve of your sweater underneath your nose to catch what's leaking. "You're not listening."

She sighs again, and you notice her head crane a little to the side to check the time on her watch.

"This is all your fault you know," you mumble at the ground.

"It's my fault about the bread?"

"No, if you had done a better job preparing students for preventing unplanned pregnancies then none of this would have ever happened and I wouldn't be-"

"Rachel," she interrupts, a little more sternly than before. "I honestly have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. When you're ready to start telling me what's really bothering you and stop telling me about my vast incompetence then maybe we can get somewhere next time."

"Next time?" You frown, turning around you to see Quinn Fabray, of all people, sitting in the hallway, her knees tucked against her chest as she examines her fingernails.

"Yes, next time," she answers coldly, looking down as she aligns her notepad with the edge of her desk. "I have another student I have to meet with."

You grab your backpack, trying your best not to guard your emotions against the relieved look on Miss Pillsbury's face as you finally leave her office. It's the look most adults have when you finally give up and leave them alone.

You stop for a second in front of Quinn's feet, offering her a hand. She promptly ignores it as she pulls herself up from the floor on her own.

"Aren't you supposed to be resting at home?" you ask politely as she sidesteps you and opens the glass door to the office.

"Thanks for ruining my life," you mumble after her, feeling your insides twist a little in disappointment as you watch your guidance counselor offer her the warm, sympathetic smile that she never seems to be able to summon for you.

* * *

><p>It's easy to find the distractions you need when you're competing against everyone. But the school year is winding down and so is everyone's resolve. So none of the smart kids seems to care much that you're outscoring them with your elaborate end of the year projects your dads have always pushed you to do. And no one in Glee Club seems to mind you volunteering for all the solos for the pointless songs you're practicing now that competition season is over. Even the dirty string of sentences about you that wrap their tails around the walls of the girls bathroom are starting to become less creative.<p>

You thought Finn would be a convenient distraction, but as you climb on top of him in your bedroom, you notice that his kisses are starting to seem a little absentminded. He's probably thinking about the same thing that you are. For different reasons of course. You know he loves you, but you can't help but let it tug at your nerves so that it feels like he's choosing a baby over you too.

Beth Corcoran. It really is a stupid name the more you think about it. It sounds like the name of a tax attorney or a home-ec teacher. Not a name you're ever going to see at the top of a page on a play bill. Against your better judgment, you let yourself wonder a little what she would have named you. What upsets you more is the sneaking suspicion that she probably wouldn't remember if you asked her.

The familiar look of Rachel Berry reprieve flashes across Mr. Schuester's face when a guidance aide hands him the slip of paper requesting that you go down to her office the next day. You try not to get your hopes up too much, convincing yourself that it's probably a scheduling issue or some other technicality that can't be avoided rather than her actually wanting to talk to the girl who cried about a loaf of bread yesterday.

When you tap on the glass, she turns around from her computer screen, smiling weakly as she motions you in. And when she moves to sit in the chair across from you for the very first time that you can remember, visions of your dads' Toyota Hybrid careening off of the closest bridge flash through your mind.

"Just tell me what it is," you sputter as you stare at your shoes, always assuming the worst. "Just tell me and get it over with and I'll get my stuff. Is it one of them or both of them?"

"What? Oh no, nothing's wrong," she replies, a little more gently than when she usually corrects you. "Is that what you thought? Oh gosh I'm so sorry, Rachel. Nothing's happened. No emergencies."

You let out the breath you've been holding, looking up to search for the hint of annoyance in her eyes. You find none. "Well then what is it? Because if it's about Mr. Schuester kissing you in the hallway then I really don't-"

"No! No." She waves her hands in front of her to stop your rambling before it incriminates her even more. "I, um...was sort of hoping we could start where we left yesterday, Rachel."

"Where would that be?"

Her nervous cough tells you that you've startled her a little by not jumping into your usual rambling. "Um, that would be with me apologizing for not listening to what you were trying to tell me."

Her honesty catches you off guard. You normal don't hear people offering it to you unless you've backed them up against a locker with hounding accusations and lecturing. "What was I trying to tell you?"

"About the baby." Her accent gives the slightest lilt to the word and find yourself wondering where she's from. She waits for you to acknowledge her accuracy but you say nothing, suddenly feeling small as you scoot back a little in the chair so that your short legs are dangling just an inch or two off the ground. She continues without you.

"Rachel, I had...no idea...that your...that Mrs. Corcoran had decided to adopt Quinn's baby until yesterday and-"

"You're not suppose to say that," you chirp as you feel her encroaching on the boundaries you've set for this particular conversation. "You're breaking confidentiality and that's against the rules." You wait for her to sigh like she usually does in response to your thinly veiled criticisms of her job, but instead she leans forward and touches your arm.

"Rachel. You know your fathers love you very much. And although it may seem that way, nobody has pushed you aside for something new. It's...more complicated then that. But that doesn't mean the emotions you're experiencing aren't valid. I just hope that you-"

"I don't need you to validate my emotions," you snap, jerking your arm away.

"Fair enough. But can you tell me what you do need?"

You turn your head away before the look in her eyes almost lures the words out of your mouth. "I need to get back to the choir room so I can rehearse. Is that a problem?" The words sting you as much as they do her.

"Okay Rachel. But I'm here if you need me."

"You have to say that. It's your job," you mutter as you stand up.

"Also true," she nods, not taking the bait of your argument. "But that doesn't mean I don't mean it."

As you walk back to the choir room, you toss around her question in your head, realizing that she's the first person in a long time to ask you what you do need. The answer is painfully obvious, but you tuck it as far away as you can in your mind. Because sometimes it's just easier to feel pushed aside.


	2. Chapter 2

Normally you would find his obliviousness more than a little endearing. But when Finn calls to ask you what you want to do on Saturday, and you casually suggest that the two of you take a drive over to Akron, he doesn't seem to catch on. You almost half suggested it just to get him to talk you out of it, but for some reason he's content to spend half the day shouting out faraway states on the license plates of cars that whiz by on the interstate. Cars whose passengers point and laugh and your dramatic pantomiming while you sing along to the _Gypsy_ revival soundtrack.

You've been sixteen for a while now, but your dads never bothered to teach you how to drive. They would have gladly obliged if you had asked, but all three of you had always assumed you'd never venture farther than Manhattan without a chauffeur one day. Your friends would probably wonder why you didn't drive. If you had friends. But Finn's the only one who cared enough to ask. "You don't need a car at Julliard," you had corrected him, suddenly noticing how much your last boyfriend's braggadocio had actually rubbed off on you. If Finn minded, he didn't show it.

The car jerks to a halt and wakes you from a short nap, and when you look around you and find yourself surrounded by an army of Range Rovers, you realize he's already pulling up into the Carmel parking lot. And for the first time you recognize that he understands more than you give him credit for.

"I can't go in there," he says, fingers gripped on the steering wheel, more in check with his emotional limitations than you can hope to be by a long shot. "I don't think you should either, Rachel."

The door to the auditorium clicks a little bit more loudly than you would have liked, but they're all too caught up in the choreography to notice. You take a seat in the balcony, your eyes skimming down across the empty director's table down below to the sides of the sleek blue stage curtain. The AV student running the sound booth gives you a peeved look when you tap incessantly on the glass to get his attention. Even he knows you don't belong here.

You squint a little under the bright sun as you escape through an exit door and make your way back around to the side parking lot. Finn's busy talking to a girl heaving over a trashcan, and you know what he's going to tell you just by the look on his face. She's already gone.

"I know she told you where they moved," you threaten, turning down the volume on Bernadette's voice as he pulls out of parking lot.

"It doesn't matter," he shakes his head as he pulls down the overhead visor. You know he won't deny you if you ask again, but you stop yourself when you realize that he'd drive you there next Saturday if you asked him too. So you don't inquire further. It's the smartest thing you've done in months. You wonder what Miss Pillsbury would say.

Your question is answered sooner than you would like. A few miles from Lima, Finn pulls into a gas station to fill up his car. "Now that...is a sweet corvette," he comments, pulling up behind an empty red convertible. You roll your eyes, and he grins like a five year old when you pull a couple dollars out of your purse and tell him to go get some Sour Patch Kids. As you lean your forehead against the hot window, feeling guilty for wasting his whole Saturday by being so selfish, you wonder why he's taking so long. When you look up, you see him standing out front talking to her. You almost don't even recognize her at first in the short blue sundress she's wearing. Her fiery hair's pulled back into a loose pony tail and a pair of sunglasses are balanced symmetrically on the top of her head.

_Pleasenopleasenopleaseno,_ your mind begs Finn. And you grimace in horror as you watch him point over to you in the car and her eyes follow. You can almost see the word _Akron _floating out of his mouth like a comic strip, and you can tell by the flash of recognition across her face that she's already connected the dots in her head. She gives you a very small, hesitant wave, which you mirror. Just when you think Finn is going to come over and make you get out of the car, a man comes out of the gas station. Whipping off his black aviators, he extends a hand to Finn while he drapes his free arm around Miss Pillsbury. You're sure that you recognize his handsome features from somewhere, but you just can't quite put your finger on it. You watch Finn take his hand, a little uneasily, and you know exactly who he's thinking about at the moment. Miss Pillsbury shoots a glance your way, and you're pretty certain she knows what you're thinking about too.

When he gets back in the car, he tosses a water bottle into your lap and the bag of candy into the back seat.

"Who was that?" you offer casually.

He shakes his head as he puts the car into reverse, looping around the convertible as he repeats the same wisdom he gave you earlier.

"It doesn't matter."

* * *

><p>Wednesday at lunch is tater tot day, so you know it's useless to run to the cafeteria to try and beat everyone else in the line. You have fourth period lunch this semester, and no one in glee club to sit with except Santana, who told you to <em>go sit at the dwarf table, Berry<em>, the last time you cautiously slid your lunch tray across from hers. Most days you're content enough to sit by yourself, pulling your furry purple pen out of your backpack to make a list of everything you have to accomplish this summer. Auditions. Lessons. Diet and exercise. You've got to stay on top of things until you can hire people to remind you to do them. At dinner a week ago, one of your dad's casually mentioned how a ten-year-old girl in the town down the road had gotten discovered and picked up to tour with _Les Miserables. _So when you press the purple ink to the paper today, it feels like you've already missed the boat. You wonder if your mother felt the same way when she was carrying you around. You were supposed to be her ticket, but she had cashed it in too late.

The last few days you've been noticing Miss Pillsbury hanging around the lunchroom. She mostly keeps to herself, pulling a novel out of her bag and occasionally looking up nervously when a student gets rowdy across the crowded room. You don't have to ask yourself why she isn't eating with the other teachers, because you already know the answer to that question. Just as you're noticing her absence today, her black bag drops on the table in front of you.

"Is this seat taken?"

If anybody else in the world had asked that question you know it would have been a cheap joke at your ever-sinking popularity status.

You shake your head, settling your pen down on the table as you flip your notepad and your secrets shut.

"I don't mean to interrupt your writing if you need some-"

"No, no it's okay," you assure her, certain she can smell how desperate you are for a lunch companion. "Just making a list of some things I need to take care of this summer."

She nods in recognition as she sits. "I do the same thing when I eat by myself. Although I'm sure you've got much more on your plate than I do."

Her words are meant to lure you into the neverending conversation you have with anyone who will listen about your plan for inevitable success. It's safe, and it's how people who are close to you have learned to autopilot through a unavoidable, exhausting conversation with Rachel Berry. What's funny is that it used to not bother you one bit. Now it just feels embarrassing.

You don't blink when she puts her plastic gloves on and wipes down the table, but you know she can feel the eyes of surrounding tables directed at her. It impresses you how something so simple can command so much attention, but you've spent enough time in her office to know she's not like you and would give anything just to blend in for once.

"I know you want to ask me," you blurt out faster than your mind can reel your words back in. "So just go ahead."

"Ask you what, Rachel?"

"What happened on Saturday," you acknowledge, lowering your voice in shame.

"Okay then," she nods down as she pops open her container of carrots. "What happened on Saturday?"

"Why are you asking me when you already know?" You realize how absurd you sound and you're genuinely surprised when she doesn't laugh at your stubbornness. She thinks for a second before trying again.

"Did you see her?"

"No. She's gone." You take your breath and continue before she can give you any sympathy. "And don't you know that asking yes or no questions is really bad for somebody who talks to people for their profession?" You don't know why you take so much pleasure in criticizing her, but before you can apologize, she laughs a little and shakes her head at your critique.

"Believe it or not, yes I do know that Rachel. Forgive me, but this is new territory for me. Usually when we talk I get a monologue about your weekly drama before I can even open my mouth."

"Are you making fun of me, Miss Pillsbury?"

She stops mid-bite and offers you the smile that has always seemed to elude your conversations. "That's a yes or no question. Try again."

She deadpans it so well that it takes you a few seconds to recover from shock before you feel your own lips curve into a grin. A curtain has been pulled back, but you can't decide whether she's let you in or you've let her.


	3. Chapter 3

It's the first time you've ever had a boyfriend (correction: any friend) invite you over for dinner. People don't seem to be so keen on advertising you as an acquaintance, so when Finn casually offers, you turn the invitation over in your mind, looking for the catch. You pull the longest skirt you have out of the back of your closet and practice your pre-audition breathing exercises in the backseat as your dads pull in front of the Hummels' house, Finn's new residence. You bark at them a little too harshly as your nervous hands motion for them to hurry up and drive away, wondering later what ignited the sudden spark of shame you harbor for your less than conventional family.

Picking your way through your non-vegan dinner, you force a few too many smiles as Finn proudly lists off your accomplishments and goals to his mother as he shovels lasagna into his mouth. Kurt eyes your silence suspiciously, punctuating Finn's praises with a few jabs at the pony on your sweater before his dad shoots him a warning glance and he excuses himself to go upstairs. And before you know it Finn has joined Burt in the living room for the rest of the baseball game and your politeness in offering to help clean up has left you cornered in the kitchen.

"Finn says you're quite the talker," Carole offers, taking the plate from your hand as you watch your uneaten dinner being scraped into the trash. "So I'm thinking that this is new for you. But I'm not scary. I promise," she smiles.

"I know that," you say to the tiles on the floor.

"And I've done the whole meet the girlfriend thing before," she pauses, waiting for your nod of acknowledgement as she turns off the sink and wipes her hands on a dish towel. "Heck, we've done the whole let the girlfriend move in thing before-"

"Oh, I would never-"

"I know. I know Rachel. Quinn was different. I'm not saying that." She squeezes your shoulder before taking a seat and motioning for you to join her. "I'm just doing my job. You and I both know that Finn loves a little too easily and a little too blindly sometimes. It's usually his best quality, but sometimes it can be his worst. But I'm not worried," she assures you as you finally meet her glance. "You're not like her at all."

It's the best compliment you've gotten in a long time.

"Anyway, I know you'll take good care of him," she says, smiling again warmly as she reaches over to cover your hand with hers. "Just be sure and bring him over to your house so your mom can give him the same speech. I'm sure it's hard on her to have to share you with a boyfriend."

You nod is stolid as you let her words drill into your chest, until you hear a sudden, almost impatient honk in the driveway. And you're out the door and into the backseat before Finn can even notice you've left, a breath of relief escaping your lungs as you notice that Carol hasn't bothered to open the front door and wave to the woman who should have been taking you home. Your dad frowns at your tears from the rear view mirror, but you push away the water bottle he tries to hand you as you bury your head into the backseat. You don't feel thirsty anymore.

You shut the door to your bedroom and stumble out of your skirt as your arms wrestle your sweater over your head, too tired to change into pajamas as you crawl between the coolness of your sheets. On your nightstand, your cellphone blinks to life, and you flip it open to see the question you've been dreading since you walked out his front door.

_so what did u think of my mom? love u._

You try to sleep but your mind is on repeat, and all the smiles and warm words that rained down on you all night are ripping the seams of the place you've tucked away your jealousies. You hate yourself for feeling this way. But mostly, you hate him for having what you don't.

It's Saturday morning and your dads have sat you down on the couch to give you their annual"We're worried about your emotional well-being" speech. You appreciate their effort, but you're just too exhausted to come up with another lie to mask the events of the last few months. So you just nod and agree with everything they say, and four hours later you find yourself wedged between them in the yellow leather waiting chairs outside of your therapist's office. Twenty minutes before your emergency appointment, the door to your shrink's room opens and without warning she emerges, swinging her purse hurriedly over her shoulder before her glance lands on your stunned face. Her cheeks flush to match the color of her hair as she smiles weakly at you. You open your mouth, but before any words can fall out she's turned her back on you and trotted out the door in her heels.

You had eaten lunch with her every day of the past week, and as you stand on your tiptoes to survey the lunchroom on Monday, you're not sure whether you're mad at her for ignoring you on Saturday or embarrassed for her. Your decide you're definitely mad when you spot her on the other side of the cafeteria, distanced from your usual table and chatting rather enthusiastically with some pimply freshman girl whose name and subsequent insults occasionally occupied the same bathroom stalls that yours so often does. Because it suddenly dawns on you that all her subtle questions and smiles and laughs at your stories was just her making you the case of the week. You turn the opposite direction, dumping your tray of food into the garbage as you swallow the bitter taste of your realization instead.

You've talked yourself out of the self-degrading conclusion by the time glee rolls around, because you're 99% certain that she wonders where you were today and wants to apologize for everything. So when a guidance aide pops his head into the choir room with a slip of paper for Mr. Schuester, you've grabbed your backpack and are halfway out of your seat before he calls out Quinn's name instead. You don't even so much as bat an eye when he asks who wants to perform their assignment first. It's the farthest thing from your mind. You're 98% sure she'll be waiting for you outside of the choir room when rehearsal is over, but the halls are empty and so is her office. Your backpack's wheels are bouncing across the parking lot as fast as you can pull them as you hurry over to the faculty parking lot, and you're 97% sure you're going to regret whatever you say but you're fuming too much to care right now. You yell across the pavement at her, watching her throw her bag into the backseat of her car before she turns to see where the voice came from.

"Rachel, is everything okay?" she asks as her eyes widen in worry.

"How would you know that, Miss Pillsbury?" you snap as your palm slams the handle of your backpack down. "How would you know if everything's okay when you've clearly been avoiding me this whole day?"

"Rachel, I haven't been-"

"Yes, yes you have," you yell as your hand shoots up to silence her. "You weren't sitting in our spot at lunch and you were talking to that freshman and then Quinn and-"

She raises an eyebrow as you stop to catch your breath. "I talk to other students, Rachel. I'm the guidance counselor."

"I know that," you snap, willing yourself not to cry. "I know that but at lunch you were talking to that girl and I just thought that because of what happened on Saturday-"

"You just thought what? That I only do my job in my office? Other students have problems too Rachel. Not everything is about you." The bite in her words causes you to take a step back, and you can tell by the look on her face that she's just as surprised by them as you are.

"I know that," you mumble, swiping your cheek on the sleeve of your sweater. She's seen you cry a thousand times but you wonder why you feel so embarrassed this time around as she reaches for your shoulder.

"Sweetheart. I'm sorry. That-came out wrong. But I'm just doing my job when I have to talk to another student, and you can't let yourself get upset over that. Don't you want me to be able to do my job?"

"No," you mutter. "Not with me."

"Excuse me?"

"Miss Pillsbury, when Mr. Schuester listens to me lecture about my superior ideas for glee club, what do you think he's doing? His job. He's doing his job. And when my teachers have to listen to me complain about how most of their curriculum has absolutely no relation to my personal aspirations, they're doing their job. When my therapist tells me that I'm not crazy for feeling the way that I do about everything, she's doing her job. When my mother," you choke out, as the ground blurs underneath your glance, "when my mother, gave birth to me, she was just doing her job, okay? That's it. That's all she was doing. So no. No I don't want you to do your job, okay? Because that's all anyone ever does with Rachel Berry. Their job."

"Rachel-" her hand squeezes tighter around your shoulder but your step back out of her grip as you muster the courage to look up at her.

"I want you to sit down across from me in the cafeteria because there is the slightest chance that you'd rather be talking to me than any other girl with the same boring teenage crises. That I'm not just some _project_...on your list that you have to check off. That's what I want okay? But I'm stupid, just stupid, for expecting anything more from you. So forget it."

As you sprint back across the parking lot, you half expect her to come running after you. But then you remember that that's not her job.


	4. Chapter 4

You can't remember what made you start taking your afternoon power walks through her neighborhood. But one afternoon you find yourself veering left instead of right, and ten minutes later you're way past your regular route and speeding on your short legs through the ritzier part of town. Your dads are well off by most standards, but the Fabray house looms over you like Daddy Warbucks' mansion did in the dreams of your childhood, and you can't help but feel a little intimidated. You wonder how Finn must have felt the first time he was invited over here.

The first time you jog past, you give a slight nod to the mailman, who's busy shoving Barneys and Saks catalogs no doubt into the giant brick encased mailbox. The second time, you look around to make sure there are no cars in the driveway before your fingertips nudge the box open with a creak. And before you can talk yourself out of it you're flipping through credit card bills and fancy college brochures. You're not sure what you're looking to find, but you'll know it when you see it.

The fourth day you give in to temptation, a small manila envelope falls out of your hands as you scramble to put everything back into the box. You don't recognize the handwriting (why would you?), but Quinn's name on the envelope and the unfamiliar return address (who else would she know in Portland?) are enough to raise your suspicions. You're just going to commit the address to memory and shove the mail back into its rightful place when you hear a car turn onto the street, and before you can gather your thoughts you panic and shove it underneath the waistband of your shorts, sprinting so quickly in the opposite direction that your earbuds fly out and flop behind you like a tail as you scurry back towards your street.

Fifteen minutes later, you're pacing back and forth in front of your bed, eying the unopened envelope like it's some bloody glove you've got to get rid of before the police trace you back to the scene of the crime. Just when you've convinced yourself to run back and slip it into the mailbox, one of your dads calls you down to dinner. So you shove it into the bottom drawer of your pink dresser and pretend that it's not a big deal.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x

Eating lunch by yourself in the choir room isn't as depressing as you thought it might be. You can run your fingers through the few piano pieces you have memorized between bites, and sing as loud as you want without anybody telling you to _shut up Berry and give someone else a turn_. You're finally getting the focus you need to plan for life after high school, and for a while your purple pen can barely keep up with the ideas floating out of your head for ways to get ahead of the game and on track. But after a few days you start to really ask yourself what exactly you're trying to prove.

You know for a fact that she is sitting in your spot, flipping through her book until you forgive yourself for blowing up and just pull out the chair across from her. You know this because every day for the last week when the fourth period bell has rung, you poke your head into the cafeteria just to confirm that she's given up on you. Every day, she proves you wrong. And every day you're just a tiny bit closer to throwing in the towel until 6th period rolls around and Quinn walks out of Spanish class with a blue guidance slip like it's some sort of golden ticket. Or a trophy for a contest you're never going to win. Thinking about the envelope buried in the bottom of your dresser, still unopened, you sink lower into your desk and let the guilt chip away at your wounded pride. You wonder what Portland's like in the summer.

On Friday afternoon, you've just finished helping Mrs. Carlyle take down the science fair projects in the library (for extra credit of course) when you're walking down the hallway towards your locker. You've gotten pretty good at staring straight ahead when you zip past her office, but your head can't help but turn in that direction when you hear their shouting seep out of her office and bounce down the empty hallway.

_What did you think I meant? That he was what, holding your place until you decided you wanted me back?_

_Well it wouldn't be the first time you used someone for that!_

_This is nothing like that Will and you know it! We're done and you can't just kiss me again and expect me to melt into a giant puddle of naivety._

_Really? Because it didn't seem like you were so opposed to it the last time!_

When you see him rounding to the other side of her desk, you know and she knows and he knows what's going to happen again. And before you can remind yourself that you're not speaking to her, you're calling out his name and sending both of their heads swiveling towards your voice like it's a giant spotlight on the outside of a prison yard wall.

"I'm-um. I'm sorry to interrupt but I just wanted to let you know that Coach Sylvester is trying to ah, install a dozen tanning beds for the Cheerios in the choir room. I'd tried to stop her but-"

Before you can finish your sentence, he's brushed passed you and into the hallway. You're pretty sure he knows you're lying, but it's too late for him to salvage his pride. You look back to see her leaning against her bookcase, her chest rising and falling and her eyes squeezed shut in embarrassment and relief. You start to excuse yourself, but then her blind grip sends a picture frame careening off the shelf and shattering across the linoleum. And you're squatting on the ground before you can blink, gingerly picking up the larger pieces of glass between your fingers when her very small, shaky voice interrupts you.

"Rachel-stop. You don't have to-"

"It's okay. I know the floor's dirty. Can you get me a dust pan?" you ask, not having to look back up to confirm the tears streaming down her face. She hands it to you, and as you sweep up the tiny remaining pieces you can't help but shake your head a little at the symbolism.

"You don't have to explain," you offer, sweeping the shards into her garbage can before you stand and brush the dirt off of your knees. "If anyone knows how frustrating it is to argue with him, it's Rachel Berry."

She lets out a shaky laugh as you hand her the tissue box the way she's done with you a thousand times, a gesture which gives you a new appreciation for her patience.

"I don't know about you, but I'm ready to get out of here," she jokes, swiping at the smudges on her eye makeup. You couldn't agree more.

When she pulls out of the school parking lot, you click your seat belt in place and give her the directions to your house. It's only four blocks away, but your heart is thumping wildly like a million blue guidance slips have landed in your lap. You don't expect her to say anything, and she hasn't said much since she locked the door to her office and waited for you to get your bag out of your locker.

Her cheeks are still red, and her mascara's a little smudged. But when you thank her for the ride for the tenth time as she pulls into your driveway, she musters up the best smile she can and reaches over to give your hand a squeeze.

"It's not my job. But I wanted to."

"You did?"

She nods and squeezes your hand a little tighter. "I did. You're very special Rachel. And I'm sorry I ever said anything to make you think otherwise."

You practically fling your backpack on the kitchen table as you bound up the stairs, slamming the door to your bedroom behind you. Your hand is jerking open the bottom drawer to your dresser as you flop down on the floor, folding your legs underneath your skirt as you carelessly rip open the envelope. When you give it a shake, a flood of baby pictures rains down around your knees. You can feel the wetness on your face before you peel the first one off the carpet.


	5. Chapter 5

You normally don't like to miss school for anything, but dental hygiene is very important to you. You can't help but notice, though, that the dental hygenist is always shoving the electric tooth polisher a little too quickly into your mouth as soon as you start to tell her all you've accomplished in the last six months since your last cleaning. Uninterested, she offers monosyllabic replies to the string of incomprehensible sentences you determinedly gurgle out as the machine whirs over the sound of your voice.

It's Wednesday morning, and your tongue recoils a little at the bitter orange flavoring as it glides across your polished teeth, and she pats your arm and tells you Dr. Jones is out today with a cold. You nod appreciatively, not wanting your dentist to sneeze germs into your mouth. Normally, you wouldn't think about such things, but all the time you've been spending with her at lunch and in her office has given you a newly found sensitivity to such concerns.

The thought of her has barely crossed your mind when he steps into the room, whistling some unfamiliar tune. You blink a few times in recognition as he snaps on a pair of white gloves while the hygienist hands him your chart.

"All right, and what pretty lady do we have here?" he smiles, dropping your chart on the table as he spins the leather rolling chair backwards and takes a seat.

"Rachel," you half mumble, feeling your pulse pick up as you wonder whether he remembers you from the gas station. It doesn't seem like he does. You didn't realize how handsome his features are up close.

"Well nice to meet you Rachel. I'm Dr. Howell, and I'm filling in for some of Dr. Jones' patients today. So if you'll just lean on back there," he offers, adjusting the incline on your chair and flicking on the hanging light above you, "we'll get you out of here and back to school in no time."

You swallow nervously, sucking a little more of the orange taste out of your mouth before you open it as wide as you can, avoiding eye contact as he leans over and pokes around with his scraper a few times. You give him a few mental points for smelling so nice.

"Good grief, these are some gorgeous teeth," he grins, popping off his gloves and he leans back. "Rachel, you make my job easy. I wish all teenagers were like that. I may have to steal you from Dr. Jones. Why don't you go pick out a toothbrush and-"

"I go to McKinley-" you blurt out as you sit up, faster than your mind can tell you to back off. You can tell he's a little confused by your interruption.

"Oh, really? I see a few kids who-"

"And I know your girlfriend." _Girlfriend? How do you even know that?_

His forehead wrinkles, and you can tell he's a little startled by the random turn in the routine conversation for his job.

"I see her a lot," you offer in a much smaller voice as you swivel your legs to the side of the examining chair. "You know, to talk about things."

He nods, resting his arms on the back of his rolling chair. "What's your last name, Rachel?"

"Berry. Rachel Berry."

"Rachel _Berry?_" he repeats, emphasizing your last name as his lips turning upward into a grin of recognition. "You're _the _Rachel Berry."

You've been waiting your whole life for someone to say that sentence, and the randomness of it being utterred in the dentist's office isn't lost on you as you wait for him to continue, not certain whether his recognition of your name is a blessing or a curse.

"Well it's nice to finally meet you, _the _Rachel Berry. Geez kid, Emma, talks about you all the time I feel like I already know you."

"She...talks about me?" you ask, frowning as a few of the more horrifying moments of the emotional theatrics you've performed in her office flash through your head.

"Of course she talks about you. She brags on you all the time kid, how you're gonna be famous and everything. Well I guess now I have something to say about Rachel Berry too, now that I've seen those gorgeous teeth."

You can't help but blush at his compliment, suddenly feeling a little more lucid about Miss Pillsbury's determination not to be kissed in hallways or her office. Finn would scold you for betraying your teacher so easily, but Mr. Schuester has never called you "_The_ Rachel Berry."

"You know I'm gonna see her later today, at lunch," you casually remark as you stand and move to pick through the open drawer and pull out a pink toothbrush with sparkles. "You know, if you want me to tell her anything."

"Aw, that's sweet, kid. Just give her a hug for me. Can you do that?"

You try not to nod too enthusiastically, not stopping to wonder if he realizes he's the one doing you a favor as you hurry back to find your dad in the waiting room.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

You can't help but grin a little as you take your usual seat in the cafeteria. You've eaten together every day since the encounter in her office last Friday, and though you've kept the conversation as light as light can be with your personality, it someone how feels more personal and less sterile than the conversations you used to have in her office. Today you notice that she doesn't take her gloves out to wipe down the table when she sits across from you, and you wonder whether that has more to do with personal progress or with her paying you a compliment.

"I can't stay long," she apologizes immediately as she pulls her lunch out of her bag. "I've got a meeting with parents than I couldn't push back."

"It's okay," you smile, feeling your chest flutter a little with nerves from the news you're about to drop. "I'm not not really hungry anyway today. I went to the dentist and you know food tastes weird after you've gotten your teeth cleaned..."

She nods, not catching on to your incredibly subtle hint, and you wonder how many times she gets her teeth cleaned a year. Probably a lot.

"And you know after today I decided I'm not really happy with my dentist. Do you know of anyone good that you could recommend?"

She stops mid-chew and eyes your grin suspiciously. "Nope, can't say that I do." She shakes her head a little too determinedly as she stares down at the table in embarrassment.

"Because I mean anyone can't help but notice how nice your teeth are Miss Pillsbury, so I'm sure you have must have a really stellar relationship with your dentist." You feel just the slightest twinge of guilt as her cheeks blush to life.

"Rachel, I don't really think that this is appropriate for us to-"

"He's really nice. I like him. I like him a lot actually."

You notice the tiniest hint of a smile on her face before her eyebrows arch in concern. "What did you say to him?"

"I just said that I knew you and that we talked sometimes."

She nods again, not looking completely convinced by your unusually concise answer as she swallows another bite off her sandwich. "And what did he say to you?"

"He said that you talk about me. A lot." Your eyes are glued down onto the table, not certain how she'll react.

"Rachel, now before you get upset, I would never reveal anything personal that you've told me-"

"Oh, I know that. It's...just nice to be talked about," you admit out loud with a weak smile. "I didn't realize you ever thought about me when you weren't being paid to..."

The look she gives you tells you how far from the truth your last statement could possibly be. She's about to say something and you can tell she's changed her mind as she clears her throat.

"So you think he's nice, huh?" she asks earnestly.

"Yeah," you smile. "He smells nice too."

She swats away your comment as her cheeks flush again in embarrassment, and you wonder if she has anyone to talk to about such things. You wonder if the only person she probably confided in just happens to be the last person who wants to hear about the dentist, and your heart can't help but hurt a little for her. Suddenly all your one-sided incessant rambling about Finn for the past year seems more than a little selfish.

"H-he told me to give you a hug too," you blurt out a little quickly, wincing at your childishness as you look down at your lunch tray.

"Just ignore him," she laughs as she shakes her head. "He was just being silly."

You muster a painfully wide smile before any disappointment can flash across your face. "Yeah, I figured."

"Oh gosh, I should probably be going," she mutters as she looks at her watch and scoops up her lunch containers. "Do you need a ride home today?"

The question exits her mouth so nonchalantly, like she's been asking you that every day for years instead of just last Friday. It more than startles you, and it takes a second for you to blurt out a reply.

"Sure. That would be great."

You make a mental note to tell Finn you won't be hanging out with him after school today after all.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

When she pulls onto your street, you're both making small talk and poking a few jokes about the inane pep rally you both had to sit through during the last period of the day. In your head, you're cursing both your dads for buying a house so close to the high school.

"Rachel," she begins, the tone in her voice turning unexpectedly serious as she pulls into your driveway. "I just hope that your, um, discoveries...today can just be between you and me. I really don't want my personal life to be more of a conversation topic at school than it already is..."

You nod in recognition, knowing how often her quirks are the butt of jokes among even the nicer kids. "Of course. I'm sorry I even brought it up."

"Oh that's okay," she offers as she turns off the ignition. "You've saved me enough times to have earned a piece of the puzzle. Just as long as it's between us."

"It is," you answer softly, meeting her glance to let you know you're serious. "See you tomorrow." You grab your backpack and get out of her car with a slight bounce to your step. You're not sure how, but somehow the weight of her secret makes your own seem a little lighter to carry.

When you drop your backpack on the front porch, ready to dig for your key to the front door, you hear the clack of her heels following you up the front steps.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you want to come in?" you ask as you turn around, more than a little confused.

"Nope. Just didn't want you to forget the hug you owe me," she tells you, smiling shyly as she opens her arms a little to make a space just for you.

And when she tightens them around you, you decide that it's a pretty good fit.


	6. Chapter 6

Everybody comes to the spring talent show because two dollars is a small price to pay to miss seventh period. And everyone pretty much knows that the weird girl in the animal sweater will go last, because the weird girl in animals sweaters always demands to go last. And after watching the audience sit through an hour of skinny white boy rapping, a bank geek quartet full of note clunking, and a injury-prone performance by the jugglers' alliance (which recently and thankfully pulled glee club up from the lowest bracket among social circles), you're honored that you can give them an opportunity to see what real talent is. None of your fellow glee clubbers are brave enough to face the humiliation of scattered polite clapping after a solo performance, but you're always ready to step up the challenge. And who are you to deny everyone the opportunity to one day brag to their friends that they knew Rachel Berry before she was a household name? Or at the very least a gay household name.

As you're singing your heart out, unperturbed by the restless movements of the audience who are no doubt all texting each other about topics that have absolutely nothing to do with Rachel Berry, you're scanning the crowd. You get an encouraging nod from Mr. Schuester, and even Kurt can't help but crack a smile when you flash him one between breaths. And when you let go of your last note, you convince yourself that the disinterested smattering of applause is a little louder for you than for the other performers. Of course Finn standing up in the back row clapping loudly like a crazy person helps add to the volume. But you're eyes aren't glued on him when you take your third gratuitous bow. They're roaming frantically up and down the rows and finding her absent.

Before you can exit the stage, the bell ending the school day rings and everyone scatters like mad to escape from the building for the weekend. You try to make eye contact with your peers to elicit some sort of acknowledgement of your superiority, but nobody congratulations you as you move through the hallway to your locker. Which isn't always easy at the end of the day when you're half a foot shorter than everyone else and usually take a carelessly flung backpack or two to the face. You're hoping that maybe you just missed her when you were looking around the audience, so you decide to stop by her office to eke out the praise you so desperately crave when your peers have failed you. She didn't mention driving you home today at lunch, but you know she'll probably offer if you poke your head in just for a second.

But your body freezes to a halt as you stop in front of the glass door, taking in the obstacle that kept her from viewing your performance. She's got her hand on Quinn Fabray's shoulder, frowning thoughtfully as the girl sobs into her own knees. And whatever flicker of sympathy you might have felt for your classmate regarding her recent predicament and the impact of the federal offense you committed last week poofs into thin air when you see Miss Pillsbury lean over and tug at Quinn's arms, pulling her up out of her chair and enveloping her into the space you were naive enough to think was reserved for you. And you're counting the seconds until she lets go of her, like the curiously gaping space between lighting and thunder.

You stop counting when you reach ten, unable to torture yourself any longer when you feel a heavy pat on the back and turn to see Puckerman giving you a fist raise as he passes down the hallway, oblivious to the scene you've been taking in. "Nice work today Berry," he offers kindly, before knocking back a gulp of his Big Quench as he continues down the hallway and out the door.

You turn back for just the briefest second to take in the Guiness World Record Hug before your eyes glaze over green and you find yourself shooting down the hallway quickly to catch up with him. He's moved halfway through the parking lot towards his truck before your yelling causes him to spin around and grin.

"Geez, you give a chick a compliment and she's jumping your bones already."

"Shut up. I need your slushie."

"What?"

"Just give it to me," you plead as he jerks back the container from your grasp, causing a little of the purple liquid to slosh over the lid.

"Um, yeah I'm gonna need at least an explanation, Berry, before you snatch my goods."

"I need it because I need to do this," you smile grimly, yanking it out of his grasp. You take a deep breath, knowing all too intimately the sting of the frozen impact, and squeeze your eyes shut as you dump the contents over the top of your head.

"What the fuck? Are you crazy?" You don't bother to answer his valid questions as you drop the cup on the ground and sprint back towards the side entrance to the school, leaving a drizzling purple trail behind your footsteps.

Your feet slip a little as you make your way down the hallway, causing you to reach out and grab the side of a locker to steady yourself before you scamper the rest of the way towards her office. You're relieved to find that Quinn is gone, and you see her sitting behind her desk with her eyes locked onto the computer screen. Taking a deep breath to center yourself and hone in on the skills from the improv class your dads made you take last summer, you focus enough on the sensation of the sticky ice running down your forehead to wring a few convincing tears out of your eyes. If trauma is what it takes to earn attention like that, then trauma is what you're going to give.

Your knock on her open door is as timid as you can possibly make it, and the diameter of her eyes upon looking up and seeing your current predicament is enough to tell you that it you've secured the nomination for best actress is a teen crisis.

"Rachel! Oh gosh what on earth happened?" She shoots up from her desk chair, eying you uneasily as your penny loafers squish into her office.

"I-I don't know!" you find yourself wailing as you wipe the slush dramatically from your eyebrows, "I was walking down the hallway and somebody told me 'Nice song, loser!' and before I could look up, it just hit me. Why does everyone hate me so much?" you lament aloud with an added sniff for dramatic effect. The story is so familiar to past encounters with your classmates that you almost believe it yourself as you shift into autopilot.

"Oh sweetie, I'm so sorry. Why don't you-no!" she shouts, abruptly startling you from your attempt to flop down into a chair. "No, Rachel, you can't sit there, you can't...please, you can't stand here," she stutters as she eyes the small purple puddle you've made on her floor. "C-can you just go back outside please? NOW?" she adds a little more urgently when you don't move immediately. The panic in her words and obvious rejection of you jolts you out of character, draining the space you've reserved for your tragic performance to make room for the deluge of anger you felt minutes earlier.

"What is wrong with you?" you snap, quite loudly, as she backs away from the step you've taken towards her. "You're so scared of a little water and food coloring that you can't even do your job!"

You can hear her swallow heavily as she squeezes her eyes shut, and you're not certain whether she's absorbing the extent of her current state of panic or the blow of your barbed comments.

"Rachel," she begins, her voice even and soft as she keeps her eyes shut as she chooses her words. "You don't think that I know that? I am...well aware...of my shortcomings."

"I just want to go home," you mumble desperately, feeling the sting of shame in your chest for the whole debacle you've initiated. "Can you just take me home?"

"Honey no, I can't," she says as she looks up at you with a frown. "I really I wish I could but you're...dripping...and sticky...and my car...and I just can't. What about Finn, huh?"

You shake your head and search for a convenient lie. "He has practice today."

"Okay, well..." she pauses as her glance shoots up towards the ceiling for an answer. "Okay, just hold on, I'll be right back. Please don't go anywhere." She sidesteps you and the puddle you've made on her clean floor as she disappears down the hallway.

After three minutes of waiting and wringing your sticky frosted mass of hair out in the hallway, you're sure your eyes deceive you as you see him following her back down the hallway toward you.

"Rachel," she smiles weakly, still keeping a good two feet of distance between you and her. "Mr. Schuester is gonna take you home okay? I'm gonna stay here and...clean up this mess."

"You okay, Rach?" he asks, his eyes much kinder than the last time you spoke to him. You nod silently, shooting Miss Pillsbury a peeved look before you lead him back down the slippery hallway towards your locker.

You open the door to the back seat of his car before he even asks you to, blushing at the memory of how you embarrassed yourself the last time he drove you home. He apologizes for the mess, and as you brush a mountain of fast food bags and greasy wrappers out of the way to make a space for yourself, you can't help but feel a little sorry for him.

"You were amazing today," he offers as he cuts out of the parking lot. "I know you know that. But I also know it's nice to hear. And I know your classmates have a way of knocking you down when you're trying to rise above them."

Normally you'd roll your eyes at the corniness of his sentiments, but they're exactly what you needed to hear at the moment and you aren't the least bit surprised when you feel the corners of your eyes sting wet.

"I yelled at her. I yelled at her for not being able to help me. And now she hates me. I'm sure of it."

You can see his body tense up at your mention of her, and you mentally flog yourself for bringing up such a sensitive subject.

"I know it's frustrating Rachel. Believe me, I know. But I also know that she hadn't spoken a word to me in a week. I think the building could be on fire and she wouldn't bother to come get me. But Rachel, she didn't hesitate for a second when it came to you. Not for a second. And whatever that is, it couldn't be farther from hate."

You exhale a silent "thank you" to him as you pull a stray napkin off the floor and wipe your cheeks. "I'm sorry I got slushie all over your car."

"It's okay, we're both messes today," he grins as he pulls to a stop in your driveway. "I'm sorry you had to sit in a pile of garbage. Hey, Rachel, hold on," he stops you as you open the door to exit his tiny car. You watch as he grabs an empty ripped envelope from his overhead mirror and flips open his glove compartment to search for a pen.

"She told me to give you this," he explains as he scribbles something on the back of the envelope. "I think she'd want to know that you got home okay."

You blink in surprise as he reaches back to hand it to you.

"But shower first," he teases as you stare down at the seven digits he's written. "She'll be able tell if you haven't. She has magical powers like that." The sad smile he gives you makes you feel more than a little guilt regarding your dental fawning earlier in the week.

As you hurry up the front walk, you turn to give your teacher a tiny wave of gratitude. Because you're pretty sure that the envelope clutched in your sticky fist is worth more than the longest hug you can possibly imagine.


	7. Chapter 7

Beth Corcoran has green eyes. You're not sure why this bothers you so much, but it does. Probably because your eyes were so dark that people used to ask your dads if they picked up their baby boy on vacation in Central America. She's barely three weeks old in the photos, but you can already tell she'll be the one parting crowded hallways in her high school days instead of pushing through them like you do. Sixteen years later. The mistakenly pudgey Guatamalan boy, all grown up.

You're sitting cross legged on your bed in the pink hearted pajamas your dads gave you for Valentine's Day, flipping over the photographs one by one like tarot cards as you squint at the images and decipher their meaning for the current predicament otherwise known as your life. Baby Beth on the couch. Baby Beth in her crib. Baby Beth in the sink. A pink bald blob of flesh with the same gaping green-eyed stare. Only sometimes in different outfits. You're grateful your mother isn't in any of the photos. The only trace of her is the writing on purple post it you found attached to a stray photo.

_Beth says Hi! Let me know if you'd like more._

You can't help but roll your eyes a little as your fingers twist around a piece of your hair, still a little wet from the shower you took to clean off the slushie. Babies don't say hi, and you can't help but feel a little sorry for Quinn. The simplicity of the sentence itself seems unnaturally cruel to you. _Your three week old daughter you gave away to a stranger just gurgled hello! _ Your dads would never have written such a thing.

You've just about convinced yourself that you're doing a favor by keeping them from her as you stack them back into a neat pile. You fasten them together with one of your hair ties and bury them back into the bottom drawer of your dresser, wondering how many more times you're going to torture yourself before you do something about it. The post it has already been sitting crumpled up in the bottom of your tiny trash crash for a few days, joined by the envelope Mr. Schuester gave you this afternoon.

But the prospect of calling her number simultaneously unnerves you and intrigues you the more you think about it. Because you don't think of your teachers as being actual people, having actual phone numbers and actual conversations that don't involve homework or detention or some other routine agenda. You're still not certain, however, that a Friday night phone call would be so welcome, as the whole offer smells like a gesture of obligation. Probably because most people's responses to your existence are gestures of obligation.

Your phone is blinking from the sixth text message Finn has sent you over the course of the evening. He's out doing family things with his family, and though you appreciated the invitation, an outing with his newly assembled family is the last thing you needed tonight. Your fingers are starting to itch, so you uproot your face from your pillow for a second to move your trashcan into the bathroom and close the door.

The buzzing of your cell phone causes you to blink awake on your bed a few hours later. Your hand slaps deliriously at it on the carpet as you wonder what time it is and roll onto your back and squint at the bright screen. It's past ten and you've missed four more messages from Finn regaling you with how many pizza bagels he has consumed in the last hour. As you're getting ready for bed, your eyes wander dangerously in between your toothbrush strokes, and before you can even spit and rinse your hand has shot down to dig through the trash. Before you can talk yourself out it, you're perched on the edge of your bed, hugging a pillow to your chest as the phone rings for the fourth time. And you're about to hang up with the line picks up.

"Emma Pillsbury's phone. How can we be of service?"

You pull the phone away from your ear in shock as the distinctly male voice bleeds through the speaker once again.

"Helloooo? Anybody there?"

You hang up in a panic, dropping your phone down onto your bedspread as if it had burned your hand. You stand up and take a few tentative steps away from it. Sure enough, after a few minutes, it begins to vibrate. Letting it go to voicemail would ruin any hopes for anonymity, so you begrudgingly pick up the phone as you squeeze your eyes shut nervously.

"Hello?"

"Hi, um who is this?"

"I'm really sorry," you blurt immediately. "That was so unbelievably rude of me but I didn't expect someone else to answer and then I thought you might be busy and I didn't-"

"Rachel," she interrupts you, as she is easily able to recognize your panicked voice. "Slow down. It's okay. I'm sorry I didn't pick up I just...don't usually get calls this late and I didn't recognize the number, so I had Carl answer it. I didn't realize that it might be you until after you hung up."

You grimace. Right, because only a crazy, selfish person would bother someone this late on a Friday. "Again, I am so, so sorry. I didn't realize what time it was," you find yourself lying, "and I should have realized that you'd already be in bed and-"

"No!" her voice chirps through the receiver as you wince a little from the volume. "No, no, no. I-we-were not, nope, no Carl...Dr. Howell's gone. He's gone and I am awake, well um obviously, and I am not in bed and no, he was just on his way out when you called and no I'm awake I wasn't," you hear her swallow nervously, "in bed. So how are you doing? Did you make it home okay?"

"Yes," you nod as you stare at yourself in the mirror, wondering what else you're supposed to say.

"Good, that's good. And Mr. Schuester obviously gave you my number, so that's good."

"Uh, yep."

"Good. I told him to do that."

"Yeah, that's what he said."

"And you got home okay?"

"Yeah, I had to ride on top of the garbage in his back seat."

You grin as she laughs a little, but you can still hear the nerves in both your voices. "Oh gosh, I don't want to imagine. He's bad about that."

"Yeah..." after a few seconds of silence you frown at your reflection as you realize that this was even harder than you had anticipated, drumming your fingertips on top of your dresser as you both awkwardly wait for the other to speak.

"Rachel...I just want you to know that I feel horrible for this afternoon. It's my job..."

You frown as you hear those three words again, but she realizes her mistake and corrects herself before you can say anything.

"It's my job to make sure that you feel safe at school and make it home okay. And...I think I did that. But I feel like I failed you as a friend today and I really don't have any worthy excuse for that."

"We're friends?" you ask, genuinely surprised as you slide down the wall and onto the floor to sit. You can tell by her silence that's she turning the question over in her mind as far as her job can let her.

"Well...yeah," she answers, her voice much quieter. "I mean I thought so."

You pull your knees to your chest and smile.

"But Rachel, I am a little curious about something. You've been hit with a slushie more than a few times in a last few years and-"

"Is that supposed to make it less painful?" you snap, suddenly feeling defensive.

"Well, no. But today was the first time you came to me about it..."

Your throat tightens as you're certain that she's caught you in your lie.

"Was there something else that was bugging you sweetheart?"

More than anything you just want to tell her the whole truth about your self-inflected slushie. But she's called you her friend and you're willing to settle for half the truth and not lose that privilege.

"You didn't come. To the talent show. I looked for you and you weren't there."

"Oh."

"So you forgot then."

"No...I didn't forget about it. I was just busy and had a meeting."

"You didn't have a meeting. You had Quinn and I know it wasn't planned because she always comes during 6th period and not 7th." The knowledge flies out of your mouth before can reel it back in, and you grimace a little at how crazy you sound.

"Rachel, you know I can't talk about this with you. But if a student stops by my office with a problem I can't just turn them away."

"She always stops by. Every day she stops by."

"Yes, she does." You're surprised to hear no trace of frustration with you in her voice as she admits what you've already figured out.

"Because you want her to."

"Because it's part of her transition plan."

"Is excessive hugging part of her transition plan?" you practically hiss before you can stop yourself. "Because I really doubt you can use that excuse."

When you're met with silence on the other end, you realize that she's giving you an opportunity to apologize. You don't know why you try and push people away before they push you, but it's an urge you just can't seem to shake. You suddenly realize that she's a lot better at her job than you give her credit for and you wonder if she has figured you out better than you have yourself.

"So you would have handled it differently?" she asks evenly when you don't take back your words.

"Yes, yes I would have. It was her choice to give up her child and she's got to live with that choice and the sooner the better. And if you ask me I think she's more than used up the pity she deserves from everyone, especially you. Coddling her isn't going to help."

"You think that I'm coddling her."

"I do."

"Helping a student through a difficult time is not coddling Rachel. And I don't think that I treat Quinn any differently than anyone-"

"What, you think that I'm jealous?" you scoff, knowing full well that you're admitting more than you're denying with such a question.

"Well...are you jea-?"

"No!" you snap, a little too quickly. You feel more than a little trapped by her questioning, not ready to admit to her or yourself that you care way more than you should. That you'd gladly let Quinn have reign of everything else in your life except this. Except her.

"You're the one who told me to call _you,_ okay?" you whine. "I didn't _ask_ for a ride home last week." You're thankful that she can't see your tears as squeeze your arms tighter around your knees.

"I...know that. Did you not want those things?"

"Well I certainly don't if this is just part of my transition plan, Miss Pillsbury. Rachel Berry, transitioning from seriously crazy to slightly less crazy."

"Emma."

"Excuse me?"

"My name is Emma."

"Well...I know that," you frown, not following her. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"And I gave Quinn a hug because she needed one. She was hysterical and sometimes I find that words just fail in a situation like hers."

"I know that. I'm not stupid."

She sighs a little before continuing. "And do you know why I hugged you the other day, Rachel?"

"Because Dr. Howell made you."

She surprises you with a laugh. "No, that is not why. I hugged you because..." she pauses a little and you can feel her hesitation through the receiver, "well, because _I wanted to_. Because _I _think I needed one as much as you did."

"Oh."

"And you don't see the difference."

"Not really," you lie, curious to hear more from her.

"Rachel Berry, you don't see the difference between ten thirty on a Friday night and seventh period?"

You grin a little at her teasing. "I guess so."

"Well you better guess so."

"Well you better answer the next time I call you and not some boy," you poke back, suddenly feeling a little bolder.

"I promise," she laughs. "No boys. Goodnight Rachel."

"Goodnight...Emma." Your face scrunches in embarrassment as you test out her name and decide you like the sound of it.

And when you flick off the lights and crawl into bed, you can't decide which makes you happier. The fact that there will be a next time, or the fact that she never questioned the necessity of one.


End file.
